All That Glitters is Not Clay
by Allie Chick
Summary: Sherlock is called in for a case of master theft. What's missing? A rather important piece of pottery. But there's another detective on the case... Sequel to 'The Palm Branch Napper'.
1. Chapter 1

AN: Hello readers!

This is technically a sequal to 'The Palm Branch Napper', which I would recommend you first.

Like the Palm Branch Napper, this is a collaborative effort between the wonder Nephynix and myself. Nephy writes Sherlock's parts and I write John's parts.

Please note, that we do write this on the spot, write off what the other has written, and generally make it up as we go along. We are also both Americans, so forgive us if we get some facts wrong, we are taking some creative liberties here. Please feel free to point out any errors and we'll fix them if we can.

Thanks for reading!

-Allie and Nephy

* * *

><p>Chapter 1:<p>

Sherlock stomps loudly into the flat, his coat soaking wet from the rain, his curls plastered to his forehead, a scowl painting his face.

Horrendous week. What with Molly, and then chasing after petty criminals…ugh. The tedium was killing him.

It would have been better if he was bored.

Shrugging off his coat, he doesn't even bother looking around the messier than usual flat, nor does he even acknowledge that John is not there. _At the surgery. Irrelevant. Delete. _

He tosses the jacket to the floor, not even caring that both Mrs. Hudson and John will get all over his case later. Actually, he would prefer it.

Ever since Molly got away…

Everything at 221B has been different.

And Sherlock _hates _it.

Sure, Molly and Jim both got away. _So what!_ He didn't need to be coddled or treated any differently. Particularly by Martha.

Sherlock yanks out his violin and begins to abuse the instrument, playing out his furry, frustration, every emotion that he cannot withstand, attempting to delete it all.

John slips his arm into his coat sleeve. His shift at the surgery is over, but he's talking his time. He's not eager to return to Baker Street.

It's been a rough week. And John, always long suffering, doesn't know how much more he can take. Tensions are running high and he's already argued with Sherlock today.

Despite the talk Sherlock had with Mrs. Hudson, he's still frustrated with Molly's escape. Which makes him more irritable than normal. Both Mrs. Hudson and John have been trying to be extra careful around him, but that seems to upset him more.

"Everything alright John?" a voice breaks through John's thoughts.

He looks up and sees Sarah watching him with mild concern. He realizes he's been standing in the same spot, coat on, staring at the floor, for several minutes.

"Oh, yah. Everything's fine," he replies quickly, "Sorry, gotta dash." And then he leaves. He doesn't want to talk to Sarah right now.

He hurries outside and into the pouring rain. _Of course it's raining, _John thinks as he hails a cab.

He reaches the flat and struggles with the key in his cold fingers. He can hear Sherlock playing the violin as he slowly trudges up the stairs.

He hesitates at the door, before entering.

The flat's a mess, like it was this morning. John hangs up his coat, clears the pile of paper off his armchair, and sits down without greeting Sherlock.

Sherlock doesn't acknowledge John, too deep into his music, his mind racing at the pace of the violent notes. The storm is his time keeper. running through hundreds of files in his brain, deleting every scrap of irrelevant data.

_Last time I ate._

_Lestrades's boring cases._

Faster and faster the data is suppressed from his mind, clearing it. Helping him focus. Soon, all he is paying attention to is the notes on the violin, an original, yet very personal piece.

Soon the last note rings throughout the flat.

As if in response, a crash of thunder nearby echoes.

Sherlock stands there, limbs shaking from exhaustion…what he always feels after such a huge delete.

A necessary relief.

Cocaine would have worked better.

Irrelevant as to why he chose not to.

He turns to John, finally acknowledging his flatmate's presence.

"You're later than usual." He states, blunt as always, part of the black mood still hovering over him, but not as prevalent as earlier that morning.

A few excuses pop into John's head. _Traffic, Sarah. _But he doesn't say any of those things. They're all lies and Sherlock would know it.

"Yep," he replies tiredly, "The case you were working on…?" he trails off.

Sherlock doesn't respond, but the look on his face is enough of an answer for John.

"Not so good then."

They sit in silence.

John gives up on trying to have a conversation, gets up, makes a cup of tea and settles down to watch some tele. But there's nothing good on so he turns it off.

Finally, John can't stand the silence anymore.

"I'm sorry about this morning," he says.

Sherlock nods, the memory flashing in the forefront of his mind.

No matter how hard he could ever try, deleting anything John related is impossible for the Consulting Detective. He doesn't understand why…

And finds that he really doesn't want to delete anything about John.

"How was work today?" Sherlock asks, his form of forgiving his flatmate, and asking for forgiveness. What happened that morning really was_ his _fault, after all.

John shrugs, "Alright. Nothing eventful." He's surprised by the question. Sherlock rarely asks him about work. But John knows its Sherlock's unique way of showing he's sorry and he appreciates it.

Sherlock stares at him, knowing there's more.

"Things have been weird with Sarah," John admits. He doesn't know why says it; he doesn't talk to Sherlock about his love life. "But it doesn't matter," he adds.

He glances around the flat, feeling a bit awkward.

Sherlock watches John for a moment as his flatmate's gaze around the apartment, trying to figure out if he's crossed a line. John rarely shares about Sarah.

He saves it to the back of his hard drive to think over later.

Because the tell-tale red and blue lights of Lestrade's police car are flashing in the window.

Sherlock's head snaps to look at the detective as he climbs the stairs into the flat.

"Sherlock." Lestrade says in relief.

Sherlock frowns at the older man.

"There's been a robbery—"

"Not interested."

"—At the Imperial War Museum."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Sherlock blinks hard.

John's eyes widen. _The Imperial War Museum? _People didn't really steal from museums in real life did they? It doesn't seem real. Like something from a movie.

"What was taken," John asks, brows knit together.

Lestrade turns to him, "An ancient piece of pottery, containing the Dead Sea Scrolls."

"Oh," is all John can say in response. He glances over to Sherlock. He sits, deep in thought, hands together, looking completely impassive.

Lestrade turns back to Sherlock, "Will you come?"

"There is only one Scroll in that pot, Lestrade." Sherlock said. "And thieves aren't—"

"There was blood found at the scene." Lestrade cuts him off. "A considerable amount."

Sherlock tilts his head to the side. "No body."

"None. But there was a message."

Sherlock thinks long and hard for a moment, then nods. "We'll be in a cab just behind."

"Thank you," Lestrade says in relief and is gone.

Sherlock picks up his sopping coat from the floor and slips it on, knowing it's only going to get more wet. It's still raining.

"Come on, John." He says as he slips on his scarf.

John remains in seat. He's exhausted and doesn't want to go running around London in right at the moment. He just got home from the surgery and he hasn't eaten anything yet.

He looks at Sherlock, who is waiting expectedly for him.

"Sherlock…" he begins, but trails off.

He's watching John with that confused expression of his. He wants John to come.

John sighs and gets up grudgingly. "Let me get my coat."

Sherlock smiles and exits the flat with John following behind.

They catch a cab quickly and head to the museum.

In the cab, Sherlock notes just how exhausted John really is…And suddenly wishes that he didn't beg him to come along. Or at least had brought something for him to—

_Oh._

Sherlock reached into the pocket of his coat, grasping the object that John has slipped into earlier that morning, pulling out a perfectly good looking apple.

He holds it out to his flatmate, not looking at the other man or saying a word. Just holding it in the space between them, like a peace offering.

John looks at the apple a moment before taking it.

"Thank you," he says quietly. He's touched by Sherlock's attentiveness. It's a small gesture, but small gestures mean a lot coming from Sherlock.

John eats the apple gratefully, wondering why Sherlock had one with him, until he remembers that he gave it to him earlier. John is always trying to find ways to get the detective to eat.

He finishes it off as the cab reaches the museum.

Sherlock climbs out of the cab, taking in every detail around him as John climbs out behind him. The building, the detail of the—

Suddenly he runs into someone.

Looking back to tell the person off, he comes face to face with a brunette woman of similar height, with green eyes and squared features.

Both of them stiffen and it is as if the temperature has dropped 20 degrees and is still falling.

"Holmes." The woman hisses.

"Adler." Sherlock replies with just as much venom.

"What are you doing here?" They growl out simultaneously.

* * *

><p>AN: We apologize for the short chapter. But we hope you enjoy it anyway!<p>

-Allie and Nephy


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

John looks back and forth between Sherlock and the (beautiful, he can't help but notice) woman in front of him. Their stares could kill.

He's never seen this woman in his life (he would remember if he did), but it's very clear that Sherlock doesn't like her. More than most people, even.

She doesn't look too thrilled to see him either. Then again, most people don't.

"I'm sorry, who is this?" John asks, interrupting their glaring contest.

Sherlock opens his mouth to answer, but the woman beats him to it.

"Irene Adler. Private detective," She answers coldly, without looking away from Sherlock.

_Irene Adler. The one woman to out smart me._

Sherlock continues to glare, but it withers. It's not even worth it. _delete._

"Where is Lestrade?"

"Wait. Lestrade called _me,_" Irene cut in.

Sherlock frowns_. Why would Lestrade call in two.. oh. That son of a…_

Said Detective Inspector finally decides to make an appearance. "Sherlock, John, Irene, thank you for coming so quickly." He turns momentarily to Irene. "Where's Mary? I thought she was coming."

Irene stiffens at the mention of this Mary. "Ms. Morstan has been…detained."

Sherlock lifts an eyebrow at this. He has not heard of this Mary Morstan.

But what intrigued him more was the reaction Irene has to her absence. _They must be close…perhaps a close friend. Obviously not a sexual partner…_

_Why would Lestrade call two additional detectives? _John wonders. He and Sherlock do just fine on their own.

Clearly Lestrade knows Irene; he called her by first name. Has he been hiring Irene in addition to Sherlock?

And who was this Mary? A friend or colleague like John?

Irene and Mary. Two people who work with the police. _Just like Sherlock and me. _

"Lestrade what's going on?" John asks breaking the awkward silence.

He hesitates a moment, "We better go to the scene." Lestrade gestures to the building.

The scene is a mess.

That is the only way to describe it at face value.

In the center of the room is an opened case where the jar that once housed one of the Dead Sea scrolls should have been. In front of it, the case that should have held it's companion, the scroll, is completely shattered.

Glass is everywhere.

And among the glass is blood.

Blood, splattered all over the place. Where ever there is a shard of glass, at least one drop of blood is accompanying it.

This is odd indeed.

Sherlock can now see, grudgingly, why Lestrade had called in _The Woman._

Irene gazes around, both her and Sherlock taking in the scene. Eyes absorbing and processing faster than John or Lestrade.

_Amount of blood. Fatal for a single person. But the splatter suggests that the person who bled was…_

Sherlock pulls out his magnifying glass and observes the glass that surrounds the largest puddle of blood.

_This isn't right…_

_Looking at the scene, John is confused. __What happened?__ The blood splatters seem… unreal. Did the thief turn on their partner? Was there a fight? Was this an accident?_

_John knows the amount of blood on the floor is fatal, but there's no body. _

_He gives up on trying to deduce what happened and simply watches Sherlock as he dances around the scene, observing everything through his magnifying glass. _

_John's gaze turns to Irene, who stands in one place, unmoving. Her eyes are glancing everywhere, soaking everything in. _

_Like a female Sherlock._

_John feels completely useless and wishes he stayed back at the flat. Why does he need to be here when there's those two. _

_"What have you got?" Lestrade asks after a moment. _

"Two victims." Sherlock says.

"Both around the same height," Irene cuts in.

Sherlock ignores the interruption. "Both here to steal the same object, most likely partners. They didn't argue or anything. They were following a strict plan…" Sherlock looks up from the blood, his eyes locking on an open window.

Irene also turns to look, a smile, one that John is not unfamiliar with, spreading across her face. "Good eye." She says. "A third party. Sniper. Damn good one at…" She trails off, a frown coming to her brow.

She whips out her phone and begins furiously texting.

"Not just a sniper. A crack shot marksman." Sherlock's brow also tightens and his storm eyes lock on John.

Not a few months ago, he had referred to John in similar terms…

But this was different. This wasn't just a kill shot, this was a deliberate attack. No one was in danger…

For some reason, Moriarty's name flashed through Sherlock's mind.

John resists the urge to shiver when snipers are mentioned. _Moriarty. _Could he be behind this? John pushes the thought from his mind. _Don't be paranoid, _he tells himself. Not every crime was connected to he can see from Sherlock's expression he's thinking the same thing.

The whole situation is so bizarre.

"Okay, wait." John says, "There were two people who came to steal the scrolls but there was a third person who tried to stop them."

Sherlock glances at him and gives him the obvious look. Irene glances up at him then continues to text furiously.

"But why?" John asks, feeling confused about the whole thing.

"More importantly who has the scrolls?" Lestrade cuts in.

* * *

><p>AN: Sorry for the delay. And the shortness.<p>

Enjoy! Tell us what you think.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4:

Just then, both Irene and Sherlock's phones bing, informing both of the detectives that they have a message.

Simultaneously they whip out their devices, glancing briefly at the screens.

Sherlock's face becomes annoyed.

Irene becomes absolutely expressionless.

Sherlock growls as he digs around in his pockets. _Mycroft. why…. what the hell does this have to do with this bloody case…?_

He pulls out the envelope that Mycroft had asked John to give him. He tears it open without fanfare and reads it quickly, his face darkening as he does so and his storm colored eyes widening.

He looks up and meets Irene's gaze.

"You…she asked you?"

Irene nods slowly. "She knew that this was to be a tough one."

"How the hell… Never mind." _Unimportant. Delete. _"When will your assistant arrive? We will need her."

Irene suddenly looks very uncomfortable. Something isn't right.

_What could possibly be detaining Ms. Morstan?_

John's interest is peaked as Sherlock pulls out the mysterious letter, the one he received a week ago. Lestrade and John watch the exchange, both feeling clueless as usual.

_So, someone knew Sherlock would need help on the case, and asked Irene to help? _John wonders as he listens.

He's still confused and wants to know exactly what the letter says. He's been wondering about that letter for a while.

_How could someone know this would happen? _

But he doesn't expect Sherlock to tell him anymore unless John asks directly, because he has the obnoxious habit of saying nothing until the dramatic reveal.

John is temporarily distracted with Irene's discomfort. She doesn't want to talk about Ms. Morstan. Something must be wrong.

John's strangely anxious to meet Irene's assistant. She's someone like him, an assistant to a brilliant detective.

"Is something wrong?" John asks, adding, "With Ms. Morstan?"

Irene sighs. "She's been ill. Stubborn girl won't see a doctor." It's quite obvious that Irene is trying (and failing) to hold back her worry for her partner. She turns to Sherlock. "I think it would be best if we put past events behind us, Sherlock, and work to get this Sniper caught as soon as possible."

Sherlock didn't respond for a long moment and then nodded. "Of course." _She wants to get back to her partner as soon as possible. If it was John…_

Sherlock cuts off his own train of thought. "We'll need to get up to that window. Lestrade, to answer your question: someone very powerful who doesn't like when things don't go his way."

"How—"

"It's obvious!" Irene and Sherlock exclaimed at the same time.

"The shot was not intended to kill, merely injure." Sherlock continued. "A warning shot. something went wrong. We _need_ to get up to that window!"

"Ok ok!" Lestrade said and lead them to a stair well that leads them to the roof.

When they get there, John recognizes the well laid out sniper nest near the shattered window.

Sherlock walks over, his magnifying glass out and already examining. He finds a shell.

"John? Do you recognize this?"

He examines the shell in Sherlock's hand. He recognizes it immediately, images of desert and gunfire flashing through his mind.

The memories cause John to hesitate a moment. He would never admit it, but he is still occasionally shaken by thoughts of the war.

"Yes. Military Browning sniper rifle," John answers quickly, after his momentary hesitation.

Sherlock nods and examines the shell closer, deep in thought.

"So our sniper is soldier?" Johns asks aloud. He doesn't know why he bothers; he and Sherlock both know the answer.

John continues thinking aloud, "So, the sniper was either acting for the government," the name Mycroft resounds in his head, before he shakes the thought off, "Or, he was discharged from the military and kept his sniper, like m-" he almost says 'me' before remembering Lestrade standing right next to him. "Like many other discharged soldiers."

Sherlock glances up at him, raising an eyebrow. John ignores him. He's sure Sherlock thought all of those things, within moments of John identifying the shell.

John's initial hesitation at identifying the bullet casing intrigues Sherlock, but he files it away for later.

"Good, John." He says. "Yes a soldier…one who had a bad falling out with the military or wasn't able to 'get use to society' after discharge. Crack shot. Hands don't shake. Low moral principles or is easily swayed by money. Most likely a hit man."

"Roughly between the height of 1.8 and 1.9 meters. Stocky. Well built…and enjoys nice brand clothing." Irene added, holding a bit of fabric in her hand.

It's a black, nice weave piece. Most likely from a jacket or a suit…

_Westwood…_

Sherlock stiffens. _That son of a…_

"John!" Sherlock jumps up and grabs John's shoulders. "Focus! I need you to recall any names of Crack Shots you knew, really really good ones, from Afgahnastan!"

The sudden urgency and grasp on his shoulders stuns John a moment.

"Uh I dunno," he says quickly, trying to remember names, "There was… there was a Bill Murray, but I don't think-"

Sherlock grips his shoulders tighter, cutting him off. "John, this is of the utmost importance!"

John digs deeper in his memory, a face suddenly appearing, "Sebastian Moran!"

The grip on John's shoulders disappears. Lestrade and Irene are staring at the pair of them, intrigued by the exchange. John pushes away any feelings of embarrassment.

He's curious at Sherlock's sudden urgency. _What was that piece of cloth?_

"Sherlock, you don't think it was someone I knew from Afghanistan? What are the chances?"

There are plenty of good snipers John doesn't know of. Why would it be someone he served with?

"Chances are never as low as you'd think they'd be, John." Sherlock says, not pausing for a moment in his stride.

Irene eyes Sherlock's pacing with interest. She's never seen him act quite this way before…

Something, something recent, must have happened. Something rather…dare she even think it…_traumatic_.

She looks at Lestrade for a moment.

Lestrade's mind is on a completely different pattern. He's trying to stay focused, but can't help but reel at Sherlock grabbing John so…urgently.

He's use to Sherlock having all the answers immediately. The idea that he needed to turn to someone else…

He looked at Irene. _Maybe Mrs. Holmes knows something I don't._

_Maybe…maybe something is wrong with Sherlock…_


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5:

John watches Sherlock's mad pacing with concern. _He's worried. He never worries. Unless... _

John has only seen Sherlock concerned like this on a few occasions. Not when a case was difficult. Not when the case was particularly gruesome. Not when he couldn't stop victims from being harmed. He gets annoyed on these occasions, but doesn't worry.

No, John's only see Sherlock worry when he's been in danger. And John's only ever been in danger because of Moriarty.

"_I will burn, the heart, out of you." _

Was this Moriarty after all? Is the reason Sherlock is worried?

"Okay, so we've identified a possible suspect, but what about the scroll, and the two that came to steal it in the first place?" Lestrade cuts in, breaking John's train of thought.

"That's what doesn't make any sense," Irene cuts in, breaking Sherlock's hundred-mile-an-hour train of thought. "There are only two sets of footprints in the blood. The two that came to steal the scroll…"

"Left with the scroll in hand…" Sherlock finishes for her. "But why? Why would the sniper shoot them, and then let them get away with what they came to steal?"

Both of the Detectives were silent for a moment, gazing around, frowns deep in their brows, trying to find something, _anything_, they might have missed.

Sherlock is wracking his brain on all he knew about military tactics, trying to figure out just what Sebastian, if it was him, is up to.

Suddenly, he had it.

"Scare tactic."

Irene's eyes widen. "Yes. That makes sense. But why so much blood?"

Sherlock is silent for a moment.

Irene answers her own question. "One of them is a hemophiliac."

"And the other one bleeds easily…"

_And where does a hemophilliac run to when there's blood?_

"A hospital," both detectives say at the same moment.

"Where's the nearest hospital?" Lestrade asks quickly, looking to Sherlock. knowing he has the whole of London memorized.

"St Thomas," he answers instantly. Before he even finishes speaking he takes off running and John chases after him. He gives Lestrade and Irene an apologetic backward glance.

Lestrade calls out to them to wait and Irene makes a small sound of frustration. But John and Sherlock don't stop or slow down.

They run back out to the street, hailing a cab, and jumping in without a moment's hesitation.

Sherlock is busy on his phone for the short ride. John says nothing, not wanting to disrupt his thoughts.

The cab pulls up at the hospital and Sherlock is running into it before John is even out of the cab. He quickly follows him in.

Sherlock goes right up to the reception desk.

"I'm looking for two men admitted recently with gunshot wounds. One of them is a hemophiliac," Sherlock tells the receptionist.

The Receptionist is a bit startled by Sherlock, but checks her computer quickly.

"Um…we had a man and a woman both come in together with gunshot grazes. The woman was pretty close to hysterics."

"May I ask where they are?"

"Surgery at the moment. I won't be able to pass along details without proof that you are either from the police or family."

Conveniently, Lestrade walks in at that moment.

"Sherlock, don't bloody run off on your own," The man chastises quietly.

As usual, Sherlock ignores him. "He's from the police, investigating their shooting."

The Receptionist asks to see Lestrade's badge, and Sherlock steps away from them, moving closer to John. "So, a man and woman team. Interesting. The sniper's moral principle is even lower than I originally thought."

John nods, "That sounds like Sebastian, alright."

He didn't know Moran very well in Afghanistan; he'd only met them a few times in fact. But John's first impression of him was not a very good one. He was an intimidating, almost vicious soldier.

John pushes away the memories and tries to set his mind on the case.

"So, our thieves a couple?" John mutters.

"Quite possibly," Sherlock replies.

The receptionist gives Lestrade the details of the floor their suspects are and directs him to the surgery waiting area.

He thanks her and asks, "Did they have anything with them when they came in? A piece of pottery perhaps?"

The receptionist looks confused but shakes her head, "No. Not that I'm aware of."

"They must have hid it somewhere nearby," Sherlock says.

Just then, John realizes something.

"Hold on, where's Irene?" He asks, glancing around the reception area.

Irene is already ahead of Sherlock. Looking in all the places around the Emergency room big enough for the Scroll and the Clay container.

The woman detective nabs a doctor's lab coat and continues her search around.

Soon she finds room where a patient was recently moved from.

There. In the corner, slightly out of sight…

But not to the well trained eye.

As she reaches for the clay container, she hears the click of a gun being armed behind her.

"I don't think so, ma'am." A rather dark, deep voice says.

She silently curses. _This is why I need Mary…_

"Hands up, nice and slowly."

Rolling her eyes, Irene does as the voice says.

John follows Sherlock through the hospital, looking for Irene and the Scroll. Hospital staff keep giving them odd looks, but nobody stops them.

It's a good thing too; Sherlock seems rather annoyed that Irene got a head start.

John can't help but be amused as his flatmate's irritation. He's rarely wrong and John's never seen him showed up before.

They decide to split up.

John goes down one hallway, passes a doorway, and something catches his eye. He stops and looks into the darkened room.

Irene is standing in the corner of the room, back to the door, hands in the air. Behind her is a tall, hulking figure John recognizes. Moran.

John's hand goes to his inside coat pocket, pulling out the pistol he keeps there (he's learned to always carry it with him when he's on a case).

Moran hears John and turns around. "Ah. Watson. What a pleasant surprise."

In his hand he holds the clay.

"Moran," is John's simple reply.

"I'd be careful with that if I were you," Moran says, gesturing with his gun, "We wouldn't want anyone to get hurt." his eyes move to Irene, "Even though you were considered the 'best shot'."

"Who're you working for?" John asks, trying to stall, waiting for someone to find them.

Moran lets out a small laugh, "I'd love to do this with you, but I'm afraid I've got to dash. But don't worry, we'll get to play another day."

He fires several shots. John, anticipating this, leaps out of the way. By the time he recovers, Moran is gone. John rushes to the door, checking the hallway and then to the window, but he's nowhere.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

"You alright?" John asks, finally turning to Irene.

Irene turns to John…and can see what Sherlock sees.

She'll admit that she never really saw anything interesting about Sherlock's partner.

But now…now seeing him there with his gun…

She could see why Sherlock keeps Doctor John Watson around.

_And why Sherlock would worry about him…_

_And why Mrs. Holmes had called me in…_

"I'm fine…thank you." She replies to the ex-army doctor.

John escorts her back to where Sherlock is. The tall, dark haired man is waiting for them in the hall.

"Moran was here." Sherlock says to John. A statement of fact, not a question. He doesn't know about the confrontation, but he can deduce from John's posture enough data to come to that conclusion.

His stomach tightens at the mere thought of the sniper touching John.

John's mouth presses into a hard line. He's frustrated with himself for letting Moran escape and with the scroll. There's not much more he could've done, but he's irritated all the same.

"Yes," John confirms.

"He has the Scroll and Clay," Sherlock says.

"Yes," John confirms quickly. He doesn't need to give more of an explanation. Not for Sherlock.

John notices a dark look in Sherlock's eye. He's bothered by the confrontation too. John can't help but feel he's let him down. He knows that's not the reason Sherlock's upset, but he feels so all the same.

"Have you found it yet?" a voice from behind them asks. It's Lestrade, marching down the hall towards them.

"It's not here," Irene answers quickly.

"What? I thought you said-" he begins to say, but he's cut off.

"It's not here _anymore,_" John clarifies.

Lestrade looks confused for a moment, but doesn't ask another stupid question after the look Sherlock gives him.

"The question now is," Irene pipes up. "Where would he take it?"

Sherlock frowns hard, trying to find the answer, all the while trying to not picture what John would do if he was Moran.

Even though John is the best comparison.

Another headache is coming. Sherlock can feel it. _Dammit… Two cases in a row… _

"We should regroup." Irene replies.

Sherlock's gaze flicks to the woman, and after a moment, he sees what she sees. "Of course."

Irene turns to John. "You're a doctor right?"

John is surprised by the question. _What does that have to do with the case? _he wonders.

"Yes, I am," he answers after the moment of hesitation.

Irene expression becomes hopeful, "Can I ask a favor of you?"

He replies with a quick, "Of course. What is it?"

"As I mentioned earlier this evening, my partner Ms. Morstan is ill and she refuses to see a doctor," Irene begins to explain.

"You want me to see her?" John finishes for her. Irene nods in affirmation.

John glances at Sherlock a moment. He doesn't need his permission, but he can't help but see if he minds. Sherlock's expression appears to be neutral.

John looks back to Irene, "Take me to her."

They leave the hospital and go to the hotel Irene and Ms. Morstan are staying at. Irene leads John up to the room, neither speaking much to the other.

John is oddly eager to meet Ms. Morstan, his equivalent to Irene. Her absence in the case has made him very curious.

Irene opens the door to a darkened room.

"Mary," She calls softly in greeting, "Mary I've brought a Dr Watson to see you."

There's a moan and a lamp turns on.

Laying in the bed is one miserable looking woman. But, John can see she's beautiful, despite her current condition.

She has a sweet, heart shaped face and messy strawberry blonde hair. Her blue boodshot eyes are surrounded by dark circles.

"Hello," John greets her, "I'm John."

Mary looks sharply at Irene. "I'm fine, Ire."

Irene raised an eyebrow at the other woman, one that John was more than familiar with, one that could silence even the maddest of men. "We both know that's not true, Mary."

The blonde sighs and leans her head back into her pillow, closing her eyes. After a long moment, she opens her blood shot eyes and turns them to John. "I'm sorry." She says, trying not to be so tart about the whole situation. "A pleasure to meet you, John."

John approaches the woman, pulling out the med kit (one that he had specially prepared in case for Sherlock), and sets to work, taking her temperature and other vitals. The woman watches him the whole time, her blue eyes studying him. After a long moment, her sickly eyes light up with recognition. She smiles at him. "You work with Sherlock Holmes, don't you?"

John stops and looks up at Mary.

Her question almost reminds him of something Sherlock would say. _Is she another bloody Sherlock? _

"Yes, I do," he answers, voice amazed, "How-?"

He doesn't finish his question.

John knows Irene has worked with Sherlock before, but that was before he knew him. He's never met Mary of Irene before today and doesn't understand how she could possibly recognize him and know he works with Sherlock.

"How do you know that?"

Mary smiles at his confusion. "After Irene told me about Sherlock, I looked him up and found your blog. I thought your name sounded familiar. I'm not a bloody mind reader like Irene here is."

The last statement comes out endearingly as Mary turns a soft smile to her friend, then turns her attention back to John as he begins to examine her again.

John smiles to himself. He can see the relationship between Mary and Irene is very similar to that of himself and Sherlock.

He is also impressed by Mary's attitude. She has such a pleasant manner, despite being ill.

He finishes checking her vitals and asks her about symptoms and how long she's been having them.

"Well, it appears you have a flu-like virus," John says after Mary explains her symptoms (with some interjections from Irene). "Luckily you're within the first 48 hours of the initial symptoms. I'll have to do a flu test to indentify the virus."

He swabs her throat and begins to pack up his med kit.

"Now, until I get back, you stay here and rest," he instructs Mary. He stands up and turns to Irene. "I've got to get this to Barts. I'll be back later with a prescription."

Irene thanks him and he bids the two goodnight.

John leaves the hotel in a strangely good mood. He's just met Mary Morstan.


	7. Chapter 7

AN: Hello lovely readers! Our apologies for the slow update! But, we've made it up to you by giving you two chapters at once!

Thanks for reading. Tell us what you think.

-Allie and Nephy

* * *

><p>Chapter 7<p>

Sherlock notices two things about John when he returns to 221B after visiting with Irene.

One: He is happy. There's a spring in his step and a light in his eyes that Sherlock had never seen before. It is not unnerving or anything to Sherlock…he had just never seen John so happy. Particularly in the past week.

_Though that's mainly my fault…_ Sherlock thought bitterly. He really never wanted to make his flatmate so upset. That had never been his intention.

_Curse the black moods…_

Two: John's happiness has nothing to do with Irene Alder. He had been polite to her and all (John is the most polite man Sherlock had ever met). No. This has something to do with Mary Morstan.

A small smile tugs at Sherlock's lip as he puts his hands in a prayer position under his chin, lying on the couch.

Call him a closet romantic.

He's met Mary only once before. She is a pleasant woman, much more tolerable than Sarah (who John rarely speaks about…come to think of it…interesting…).

To be honest, Sherlock likes Mary. Not the same way he likes having John around, but he can definitely see why Irene (as his female counterpart, no matter how much he hates to admit it) keeps her around.

"How was the visit, John?" Sherlock asks after John takes off his coat.

John almost doesn't hear Sherlock's question. He's distracted.

He finishes hanging up his coat before replying. "It went very well. Only a virus. She should be fine in a few days with the antibiotics," John says, "Mary's nice. I like her. Very pleasant. And she must be patient to be friends with a woman like you."

_I'm rambling, _he thinks. John doesn't usually ramble at Sherlock; he doesn't have patience for rambling.

But John's in a very good mood. He had an instant liking for Mary and he wants to see her again.

Sherlock is watching him with an odd grin. John realizes he's been standing there silent, lost in his thoughts, for a long time. Too long.

_What's wrong with me tonight? _He hasn't behaved like this since… well, a long time.

He clears his throat, "So, find anything after we left?" he asks Sherlock.

Sherlock's smile widens as John rambles. It's something John never does and Sherlock finds it…funny and absolutely endearing. Usually he doesn't have patience for rambling…

He'd make an exception to John rambling.

He likes John after all.

_And he likes her, a lot._

_Mission accomplished._

Sherlock gets up from the couch at John's question. "Not much. Moran is a rather clean hit man. In and out. Practically no evidence stating that he was even there. Like a ghost." Sherlock frowns slightly. _This is annoying. First Moriarty, then Molly and now Moran…_ "The only evidence that allowed me to know he was even there was the tenseness in your shoulders and the fact that your gun was sloppily placed in your jacket pocket. Don't worry, Lestrade didn't see it."

"The true question that needs to be answered is Why does Moran, or whoever he's working for, want the Dead Sea Scroll so badly? It's just an artifact. It doesn't hold any power or anything. Why would someone go through the trouble to steal…"

Sherlock stopped talking for a moment, the gears spinning at a frightening rate inside his head.

John moves to his chair and sits down, trying not to disturb Sherlock's thinking. He can see thoughts racing through his mind and he doesn't want to stop them.

It's fascinating to see Sherlock's process, how it all comes together in his mind. He then states the solution, it seeming perfectly clear to him, but confusing to everyone else.

In comparison, John's thought process is slow. He feels like he bumbles around, metaphorically, in comparison.

John thinks on the matter as well. _Why would someone… _

But all John can think of is Moriarty. _Stop it! _He commands himself. _You're being paranoid. _It's not likely to be him… is it?

The only reason John can think of is for money. The Scroll is worth a lot, right?

He sighs to himself and glances at Sherlock.

The pieces are falling into place.

Israel was in the midst of near crisis. With Egypt in flames and America's president not acting like an ally should to the situation…

The Dead Sea Scrolls were a treasure. A rather crucial piece in Israeli history. If someone wanted to destroy them…they would attack the history first…wouldn't they?

So where did Moran fit into all of this?

Was he sympathetic to the other side's cause? Not likely.

Most likely it was for money.

But who would pay to steal history…

This didn't sound like Moriarty at all.

No. This was something different.

_Or was it…_

Moriarty's empire no doubt reached just as far as Mycroft's, and he most likely for many government dirty jobs…

If Britain wasn't able to safeguard an Israeli artifact, something entrusted to them…

How could they be expected to help Israel in times of crisis?

It was…it was _elegant. _Deviously so.

But where would Moran go next?

Sherlock's eyes locked on John. _Where would— NO! Don't go there! John isn't…could never be like him._

_But a soldier would know how another soldier, albeit corrupt, would think, right?_

"John, where would he go?"

He blinks, not comprehending at first. "Moran?" he asks.

Sherlock nods impatiently.

John's brow furrows as he thinks. If he had to hide, if he had an important artifact… where would he go? Where would his base of operations be?

His memories go back to Afghanistan and his military training.

Someplace where people quiet, someplace where he wouldn't seem suspicious. But it would need to be nearby.

Areas, streets, and neighborhoods pop into his head. But they're not quite right

Then the place comes to him. The place he would go. A cheap motel where they don't ask a lot of questions, in a… particular part of town.

He tells Sherlock the name. "But he wouldn't be there, would he?"

Sherlock takes the name in stride, his internal map showing him the quickest way to that hotel. "Of course he'd go there. He's smart…and he wants us to follow him…"

He dashes over to the closet and takes out John and his jackets. "The girls are sitting this one out. Hurry. We haven't got much time."

John looks ready to complain, but doesn't. He follows Sherlock as the taller man starts running through the streets of London.

The hotel in question wasn't too far away, at least, not by the route Sherlock took.

Moran is standing in the alleyway, waiting for them.

Sherlock barely has time to react before a blow dart hits him in the arm.

Within seconds, Sherlock is on the ground, unconscious.

Moran grins at John. "Good to see you again, Watson. I see your master brought you along. How clever of him. Thought you would be dogging at his heels anyway. Got you under his thumb, don't he?"

'_He wants us to follow him.' _

A trap.

John watches helplessly as Sherlock falls. He wants to run to his side, check to make sure he's okay. But this is not the time. His expression hardens as he glares at Moran. Anger bubbles up inside him. His inner soldier takes control.

He stays rooted on the spot, hand going to his gun, which luckily is still in his coat pocket.

"Moran," he replies coldly, refusing to take the bait. "What do you want?"

The sniper takes a step forward. "I fancied a chat with you, Watson. Our last was too much too short. I was in a bit hurry you see."

Moran stalked towards John with the grace of a panther, his eyes glowing with a thrill that sent shivers down John's spine. He kneels beside Sherlock, and pulls the dart out from the detective's unresponsive side.

"That should give us enough time to talk. It won't kill him…no, no, no, no. Jim wants to do that." A menacing grin spreads across Moran's face. "He's got big plans for your master, Watson. You have no idea who you both were messing with that day at the pool."

Sebastian Moran stands and looks John in the eye, his eyes glowing with a madness that could terrify anyone…but not John Watson. John had stared death in the face too many times to be afraid of the man who was, in practically every way, his equal and opposite.

"So, tell me, Watson. Is he as good as they say? Is he the cold hearted bastard that he is whispered about on the streets? Just like Jim. Could kill without a second thought and never regret—"

He never finished his statement…because now the barrel of John's gun was in his stomach.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

John's voice is low and dangerous as he replies. "Don't you dare finishing that sentence."

His brown eyes burn with anger. He's furious. In his eyes, Sherlock is nothing like that… that _monster. _He doesn't see Sherlock as a sociopath, he sees the good him, which nobody else sees. Sherlock may not feel emotions in the same way others do and John has always suspected he has aspergers, but he is not a psychopath.

John can't let Sherlock think he's like Moriarty.

"Don't you dare compare Sherlock to Moriarty! He will never be like him," he whispers angrily.

Moran just smiles wickedly down at him.

"Whoa. Touchy eh?" Moran chuckles, meeting John's glare. "You really believe that, Watson? Really and truly?" Moran shifts a bit, the pressure of the gun barrel against his stomach not effecting his speech in the slightest.

_Perhaps because he too had stared down many a guns in Afghanastan…_

"Then what is he, Watson? He's most certainly not a hero. He has said so himself after all…"

John stiffens. _How does he know...? _The flat. They've been watching the flat. _Of course._

John glances sideways at Sherlock. Doubt clouds his mind. How should he respond?

Suddenly, he recalls what Lestrade told him they first day he met him.

"_He's a great man and someday, if we're very, very lucky, he might be a good one." _

"Yes," John says softly, "He's not a hero, but he's a great man. And I will not let Moriarty touch him."

"Well then," Moran says, pulling something slowly from behind his back. "Has you 'great man' figured out just what I'm doing with the scroll…or is he still at a loss?"

John doesn't have time to respond, before a sucker punch flies out.

He ducks, missing the blow, but Moran's one step ahead and attempts to swipe out John's feet from under him.

John sidesteps and is only knocked off balance. But Moran quickly strikes again with a right hook to his face. He reels backwards, pistol falling to the ground, and his hand grasping his nose.

_Not broken, _he quickly assesses.

But John doesn't have another moment to think before Moran lunges at him again. He ducks once again and swipes at Moran's gut.

Moran dodges cleanly, but a smug smile forms. "I actually got a hit on you? Watson, you've lost your touch…"

Sherlock begins to stir slightly. Whatever Moran dosed him with, years of Cocaine use had left him with a rather high drug tolerance.

Moran gives him a slight side glance, but nothing more. His attention directed completely on John.

Until…

"JOHN!"

His head whips around in the direction of the shout. To his complete and utter shock, he sees Mary pointing his gun at Moran and Irene standing beside her, eyes on Sherlock's semi conscious form.

John relaxes, backup's arrived. And then he promptly starts to worry.

_What the hell is she doing here? _

Mary's still ill and though he hands are steady, her legs wobble. _She's still weak._

"Mary," he cautions, glaze flicking back to Moran.

Sherlock's eyes flutter open at Mary's shout and he tries to get up, but his arms are not responding.

Moran looks slightly confused at the appearance of Mary and Irene, as if he is having a hard time figuring out where they fit and why.

And now with Sherlock starting to awaken…

Moran decides it might be a good time to cut his losses. He glares at John. "You tell your flatmate to leave Jim alone. He'll contact Sherlock when he's ready for him."

John looks at him slightly puzzled.

Moran chuckles. "That's all this game was about. You can have your clay back. You'll find it in the hotel room under the name Carl Storms." And with a wink, Moran is gone…

Just like how Jim vanished.

For a few tense seconds, the four do not move, as if expecting his return.

Then Irene dashes to Sherlock's side. "You idiot! Chasing after the man with a gun. Are you crazy?"

"Oh sod off!" Sherlock replies drowsily, sitting up and blinking hard. "You brought Mary, who is obviously ill with the flu, with you. She can barely stand and it's taking all her energy not to drop her gun."

Sherlock is correct. Mary begins to sway on her feet, her eyes are glassy. She sinks carefully to her knees, her energy depleted.

John, ignoring his own bleeding nose, rushes to her side knowing she needs him more than Sherlock at the moment. Kneeling in front of her, he pulls the weapon from her weak grasp and quickly checks her pulse.

Distantly he can hear Irene arguing with Sherlock, "It's hardly my fault! I couldn't stop her from coming with me!"

John's hands move to Mary's forehead and he checks her temperature.

"You alright?" he asks, pulling his hand away. She's very hot.

The blonde woman nods. "Yah, I'm fine," she answers faintly, looking down.

"That was incredibly stupid of you," he says in the tone of voice usually reserved for Sherlock and small children, the tone of endearing exasperation.

"Yes," she answers, looking up, "But I couldn't let Irene go alone again."

The corner of his mouth curls into a smile, "I know."

John turns his head and looks over to Sherlock and Irene. "Mary needs to get back to a bed as soon as possible."

Irene stands quickly, leaving Sherlock to rise on his own, and walks quickly over to her partner. She kneels in front of Mary for a moment, looking her friend in the eye before pulling Mary carefully to her feet. An arm goes around Mary's smaller waist so that Irene is supporting most of her weight.

"John, if you'd help Sherlock, I think we can return to your flat quickly." Irene states rather flatly.

John tilts his head to the side, slightly confused.

Sherlock sighs, exasperated with the slowness of his flatmate. _For crying out loud, I'm half drugged and can still figure out what Irene's saying!_

"She means that our flat is closer and with the rain about to come in again, and with Mary so ill, it would be best if they stayed at 221B tonight."

Sherlock tries to get to his feet on his own, but the drug still has some effect on his limbs. He collapses to his knees, a growl of frustration escaping his lips.

John stands and goes to Sherlock, feeling a bit silly for not understanding quicker.

"Wait," Sherlock says as John moves to help him up, "Text Lestrade. Tell him the location of the clay."

Obediently, John nods, pulls out his phone, quickly types out a message for Lestrade and sends it.

John grab's Sherlock hands and pulls the taller man up, putting one arm around his torso. Sherlock automatically puts his across John's shoulder.

To his surprise, Sherlock weighs more than he expects, for a man so thin.

"Let's go," he says and they slowly make their way back to the flat.

At first John supports most of Sherlock's weight, but slowly he gains more control over his limbs. They're progress becomes quicker. Periodically John will look behind him and check on the girls.

It barely begins to rain when they reach the flat.


	9. Chapter 9

Epilogue:

_The next morning…_

Sherlock, being his typical insomniac self, gazed out the window as the morning light was beginning to creep over the horizon. Staring at the streets as London awoke.

Like it did every day.

Like nothing had happened the day before.

Like there wasn't a huge threat right under their noses.

And that _frustrated _Sherlock. Because he could _see _it.

He could see everything. Every little detail that went unnoticed.

He could take one look at you and tell an entire person's story.

Mummy had called it a gift.

Mycroft too.

But Sherlock….

To him it was a curse. Something he had to fight with. Particularly before John had moved in.

There was a reason he had been a coke addict.

It was to stop him from seeing so much.

Sherlock continues to stare out the window, clothed in his pajamas and robe, arms crossed and face drawn in concentration to not focus on how _ignorant_ and _stupid_ the human race was.

_Why do I even bother? _He asked himself for the thousandth time.

"Because people like John put you up to it." A voice answered his thoughts.

Sherlock turns to look. There, standing in the door way to John's room where Irene and Mary had slept that night, Irene Adler stands, watching him, her coat wrapped tightly around her slim frame to keep out the cool morning air. She obviously had not slept a wink. _Most likely due to Mary's condition…_

"That doesn't make any sense," Sherlock says. "He can't make me do anything any more than my brother."

"And yet you do, Sherlock," Irene replies. "Sure, you solved cases in the past, but now you can _see _when someone is in danger. And you know how John will react and you adjust yourself accordingly. It's a survival mechanism in the crudest of terms. John is your partner, your pack, he has taught you to do what is best for that pack."

Sherlock just stares at The Woman. His familiar. A female-Sherlock, or he was a male-Irene. Two sides of the same coin.

She read him like he could read her, and together they read themselves.

"Mary does the same for you."

She nods. "She does. That's what makes us different from Moriarty and Hudson, Sherlock." She crosses the room to stand in front of the other window, gazing out at the streets. "All four of us _see_ everything, but the two of us…we have someone in our lives who teaches us to be human, even for just a moment."

Sherlock could read what she was saying. John had said it before.

_You are not Jim Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes._

"You are not Molly Hudson, Irene Adler," The words escape Sherlock's lips before he can stop them.

Irene smiles at him. "Mary has told me so time and again. But…thank you, Sherlock."

A pleasant silence fills the space until Sherlock and Irene hear movement from upstairs and from Sherlock's room.

Mary and John are awake.

John wakes up from his pleasant sleep and is temporarily confused. He's not in his room. But then he remembers what happened last night. It comes flooding back to him.

Suddenly he's wide awake. Mary. Mary is upstairs; in his room (he couldn't subject the girls to the terrors of Sherlock's bedroom).

He sits up quickly, throws his legs over the side of the bed, and maneuvers through the maze of clutter that is Sherlock's room. Without disturbing much of the piles of books and papers, John finds his shirt, puts it on, then paddles out into the living room.

Sherlock and Irene are looking out the window, but Sherlock glances John's way.

"Morning," John says quietly.

Neither of them replies, but Sherlock half smiles. It's close enough.

John stands in the middle of the room, feeling a bit awkward, like he's disturbed a moment. His eyes glance towards the staircase. He wants to go up and check on Mary, but doesn't know if he should.

"How's Mary?" he asks tentatively instead.

"She's awake," Irene answers without even turning around.

He takes that as an invitation. He quickly turns and heads up the stairs.

The door is partway open and he knocks tentatively. A soft groan answers and John. He opens the door all the way and walks in.

Mary is lying on the bed, tangled in the covers.

"How are you feeling?" John asks as he approaches the bed.

Sherlock suppresses a chuckle as John dashes for the stairs, his eyes flicking to Irene, who looks to be doing the exact same thing.

Mary turns over at the sound of knocking to see John walk in. She instantly throws her covers over her head, a completely and utterly irrational desire to NOT have him see her in this state flooding her being.

Her heart is palpitating roughly in her chest.

She coughs and that is all the answer John needs.

He pulls on her cover slightly. She knows he wants to take her temperature.

"C'mon Mary. I need to make sure you're not running a temperature," John says, as if speaking to a child, or Sherlock.

He continues to tug playfully at the cover until she pulls them down to her chin. John puts the back of his hand to her forehead and then to her neck. To his relief, it's not too warm. Only a slight fever. His hand goes down to her throat, feeling for any swelling.

Mary looks away for the entire process, avoiding John's gaze, and feeling a bit embarrassed.

"Well, you're lucky," John states, "It appears your escapade last night didn't do much damage."

Mary nods in relief, not just that she is getting better, but that John's hands are no longer on her. Never before has someone touching her made her feel so…pleasantly uncomfortable.

That was the only way she could describe it.

John's hands, a doctor's hands, are gentle but meticulous. He no doubt felt the spike in Mary's blood pressure when his fingers met her throat.

Pulling the covers tight to herself, she sits up slightly. "Thank you for letting Irene and I stay the night," She croaks slightly, her throat raspy from coughing all night. "It was very kind of you and Sherlock."

John smiles slightly, "Oh, it's no problem, Sherlock never uses his room anyway."

Mary smiles back and opens her mouth to say something, but goes into a fit of coughing. John's hands go to her shoulders, holding her steady. He's sitting on the edge of the bed, patting her back, waiting for the coughing to stop.

"Are you alright?" he asks when she stops.

Mary nods slowly.

"Let me go make you some tea," he says softly, "That'll help your throat."

He stands up, goes back down to the kitchen and immediately goes to work putting the kettle on.

Irene and Sherlock continue to stare out the window, silent as statues, not needing to speak, because every word that could be said between them has already come to mind.

Until John comes down the stairs.

Sherlock's eyes move to his flatmate, watching him as he carefully makes tea for Mary. He smiles slightly at John, knowing that Irene couldn't have brought her best friend to a better doctor.

While the kettle is on the burner, John begins bustling around the kitchen, looking for something.

Something that was obviously moved from where he had put it originally.

Sherlock walks away from the window, moves to the kitchen and reaches into a cabinet that John hasn't looked in yet, pulling out the jar of honey, untouched by Sherlock's experiments.

"I moved it so it wouldn't get in the way of my experiment." He says simply, as he hands the jar to his flatmate.

As Sherlock walks into the kitchen, Irene hears the stairs creek just in time to see Mary enter the living room, swaddled in John's bed spread. Irene frowns at her and moves her to sit in the chair with the Union Jack pillow.

"You shouldn't be up and walking around," Irene chastises gently.

John smiles as Sherlock hands him the jar of honey, appreciating the thoughtfulness. Maybe Sherlock was changing. Not dramatically, but he was becoming more aware of John's concerns.

"Thank you, Sherlock."

Sherlock nods in acknowledgement exits the kitchen.

John adds a bit of honey to the mug waiting on the counter.

He carries the mug of tea out of the kitchen just as Mary replies "'m fine Irene."

"Mary," he says reprovingly when he sees her sitting in his chair, "You should be back upstairs."

But he hands her the tea regardless and settles down into Sherlock's chair, so he's sitting across from her.

Sherlock settled into his space by the window once more, the room going silent as Mary sipped her tea.

It wasn't an uncomfortable silence, but one that left Irene and Sherlock wishing that it wasn't so…quiet.

John and Mary made life a bit louder.

How was it possible that putting the two of them in a single room (Mary being sick or not) and suddenly the world went silent…

Sherlock wasn't sure if he liked it or not.

God was merciful that day.

Just as Sherlock was beginning to fidget, his phone rang.

Irene's too.

Holmes and Adler dived for their phones, much to Mary and John's amusement.

"Sherlock Holmes."

"Irene Adler."

They say simultaneously into their communication devices, and shortly after, both their faces light up.

"Of course!"

"How could I refuse!"

After a moment, they hang up and turn to their respective crime solving partners.

"Lestrade! He has a case for us!" Sherlock says, glee filling him.

"That was M. She wants' us to return to her home. She has something for us!" Irene looked just as excited.

John and Mary look at each other and chuckle.

A new day, a new case with their dearest friends.

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><p>AN: And that's it for this one! This will probably be the last full out story that Nephy and I will be doing together, and I know we kinda left things hanging. We apologize.<p>

Thanks so much for reading! Tell us what you think!

-Allie and Nephy


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